Astarion crept closer and closer to the sleeping Cleric, his breath catching in his throat with each silent step. All his senses fixated on the sound of her breathing and the intoxicating scent of her body as he knelt beside her. The glow from the nearby campfire cast dancing shadows across her serene face, and for a moment, he hesitated, guilt rising in him at the sight of her peaceful expression. Every nerve in his body tingled in anticipation as he considered what he was about to attempt. His ears could clearly make out the slow, gentle beat of the half-elf's heart, and in his imagination, it called to him like a sweet, irresistible melody.
Slowly leaning over her body, Astarion bared his fangs, closing his eyes as he prepared to bite down into her neck. The thrill of defiance surged through him, mingled with twinges of uncertainty. He felt rather than saw movement, and his eyes snapped open. To his dismay, he found himself staring into the startled eyes of a now very awake Shadowheart. Leaning back, he murmured an uneasy, "Shit," his heart pounding with sudden fear.
In an instant, Shadowheart rolled away from him and leapt to her feet, her fists clenched and her gaze full of open hostility. Astarion's mind raced as he scrambled to his feet, desperation creeping into his voice. "No, no. It's not what it looks like, I swe—"
He wasn't given the chance to finish his sentence as Shadowheart lunged at him, pulling a dagger from a concealed sheath on her leg. Panic flared in his chest. He barely had time to register what was happening before the blade snaked out, aiming for his chest.
"Wait!" he yelped, throwing himself to one side. He heard the sound of tearing fabric as the dagger glanced off his hip, leaving behind a jagged rip in his shirt and a faint bead of red on his skin. Astarion's face paled, no mean feat for a Vampire, as he realized Shadowheart meant business. Survival instincts kicking in, he rolled into a fighter's crouch and turned to face her... only to find himself flying backward a few seconds later as the enraged woman barrelled into him shoulder first.
Stunned and with the breath knocked out of him, he managed to raise his arms just in time as Shadowheart bore down on him, her dagger once again pointed at his heart. Catching her wrists and halting the dagger's downward motion, he snarled up at Shadowheart, fully baring his fangs with anger and hatred. His eyes, usually so calm and calculating, now burned with a wild, desperate fire.
For a moment, the sight of him in all his savagery made her falter, and that split second of hesitation was all Astarion needed to use his superior strength to twist her wrist and force her to drop the dagger. Now on the defensive, Shadowheart tried to pull away from him. Letting her own momentum carry him, he twisted her arm further, forcing her to roll to one side or risk a broken arm. Pressing home his advantage, Astarion rolled with her and pinned her underneath him. Fully enraged now and filled with adrenaline, his hands closed around Shadowheart's neck. The anger in her face turned to fear as he began to choke her, and she clawed at his face in an attempt to force him to release his hold.
He avoided her attack and gripped harder, pressing his thumbs into her throat. He saw Shadowheart's hands drop to her sides and scrabble around in the dirt next to her, but he was too full of bloodlust to fully realize what she was doing. Each gasp and struggle from her filled him with a twisted sense of power and dominance, clouding his judgment.
That proved to be his undoing. A sharp pain just under his ribs cut through the red haze that had fallen over his eyes, and he looked down in shock to see the end of a piece of kindling sticking out from his side. A red stain was blooming out from it across his shirt, a chilling contrast of crimson on white in the dim firelight. Releasing his grip on Shadowheart and pushing himself up to his feet, he staggered backward and looked at her and then at the blood seeping through his shirt in disbelief. The pain was sharp and real, snapping him out of his murderous trance.
He suddenly became aware of noise and movement all around him as the other occupants of the camp began waking up to investigate the commotion. Fear gripped Astarion as the danger of his situation became clear; there was no way he would be able to fight his way out of this. Abandoning his attack on the now coughing Shadowheart, he turned on his heels and bolted into the forest. He could hear shouts behind him as he blindly pushed his way through the undergrowth, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and the vengeful mob he knew would soon be coming after him. Each step was a struggle, pain shooting through his side with every movement, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. Not until he was safe
The scene that greeted Ishta as she emerged from her tent, sword in hand, was one of confusion and alarm. Her heart lurched as she instantly took in the sight of Shadowheart kneeling by the campfire, holding her throat and coughing violently. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows on the woman's face, contorted with pain and fear. Gale stood over her, his face etched with concern, a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Striding purposefully over to them, Ishta's eyes blazed with urgency and worry. She caught Gale's attention and demanded, "What the hells happened here?"
Shadowheart answered, her voice raspy and broken. "Astarion… vampire… tried to kill…" she gasped each word in agony.
Ishta's stomach churned with a mixture of anger and dread as she looked to Gale. He clarified, "It would seem our resident rogue is, in fact, a Vampire. Looks like he tried to feed on Shadowheart and found her to be somewhat of a dangerous meal, judging by the blood trail."
Glancing towards the forest, Ishta noticed the splashes of blood Gale was referring to. Her keen ears picked out the sounds of something—or someone—fleeing in the distance. A sense of betrayal and frustration surged through her. 'That idiot,' she groaned inwardly, clenching her fists.
As the rest of the group started to crowd around the injured woman, their faces a mix of shock and concern, Ishta quickly made up her mind. "Everyone, stay here and secure the camp while I go find Astarion," she commanded, her voice steady but tinged with anger. "Gale, see if you can assist Shadowheart in healing her neck."
Gale nodded, but Shadowheart, her eyes flashing with determination, shrugged off his hand and stood up shakily. "I'm coming with you," she declared, her voice fierce despite her condition.
Ishta shook her head. "No, this is my responsibility. I will handle this."
Shadowheart's eyes blazed with fury. "He tried to kill me. This is personal now."
Ishta put up a calming hand, her voice softening. "I don't think that was his intention, Shadowheart," she said gently, but with a firmness that brooked no argument.
Something in her tone must have betrayed her, because Gale turned an accusing gaze on her. "You already knew what he was, didn't you?" he said, his voice sharp and filled with disbelief.
Avoiding the intense stares from Shadowheart and Gale, Ishta sighed, feeling the weight of her secret pressing down on her. It was too late—or possibly too early—to be dealing with this shit. "Yes, I've known about him for a few weeks now," she admitted, wincing guiltily at the explosion of anger from Shadowheart.
"You knew! And you let a monster like that walk freely among us without telling us?" she demanded. "Why would you put the camp at risk like that?"
Ishta pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration and answered, "Because up until now, he wasn't stupid enough to try and attack anyone. He's only been feeding on animals during his time helping us, so I decided that the risk he posed was minimal." She glanced up at the stony expressions on her companions' faces, feeling a pang of regret. "Obviously, I made an error in judgment."
"I'd say that was an understatement," Shadowheart retorted, her voice, as hoarse as it was, still carrying a great deal of anger and hurt.
Ishta chose to ignore the jab, and turned to head into the forest. Gale stepped forward and reached out to tap her arm. "Are you sure you don't want any help? I'm sure I don't need to tell you how dangerous a wounded animal can be," he warned her.
Shaking her head, Ishta said firmly, "I can take him out just fine on my own, if it comes to that. I'm hoping, though, that I can reason with him and find out what made him attack one of us now, considering he's had plenty of other opportunities."
Gale looked surprised by her words but chose not to press her further. Ishta was grateful for this, as the last thing she needed right now was to have to look out for someone else while she hunted down her quarry.
"Give me until morning. If I'm not back by sunrise… well, you can break out the torches and pitchforks," she said with a tight smile, trying to lighten the mood despite the tension gnawing at her.
Swiftly leaving behind the lit clearing, Ishta sprinted beneath the dark canopy of the forest, her senses heightened as she bounded over fallen logs and skilfully avoided the clutching tangles of the dense undergrowth. The scent of blood and the distant sounds of breaking branches urged her onward. Her heart raced not just from the exertion, but from the fear and uncertainty of what she might find. As she followed the trail left behind by the fleeing Vampire, her mind whirled with thoughts of betrayal, danger, and the hope that she wouldn't be forced to end Astarion's life before the night was over.
Astarion had no idea where he was going; the only thought in his head was to keep running. The forest seemed to conspire against him, branches tearing at his face and clothing like the grasping hands of vengeful spirits. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a sharp reminder of the pain growing stronger in his side. He was acutely aware of the blood dripping from his wound, its warmth contrasting cruelly with the cold dread settling in his chest. If he didn't find somewhere safe to hide soon, there was a real risk of bleeding out. A wound like this wasn't fatal in and of itself, but it would incapacitate him long enough for something else to find him and finish the job.
Suddenly, a sharp gasp tore from his lips as the pain in his side intensified with a stomach-churning sharpness. He looked down in horror to see the stick embedded in his side wrenched downwards, snagged by thorn bushes. It ripped itself out from his flesh with a sickening tug, leaving a gaping hole behind. Clasping his hand over the wound, he tried desperately to staunch the flow of blood, but it was like trying to hold back a river with his bare hands. His vision swam, and his knees buckled; he threw out a hand to catch himself as he pitched forward onto the forest floor.
For a moment, Astarion lay there in the long grass, panting heavily and shaking with pain. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled his nostrils, grounding him in his desperate reality. He whimpered softly to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, "Damn it all, how did I fuck up so badly?"
A faint sound echoing out from the forest behind him reached Astarion's ears and sent a chill down his spine. It was the unmistakable sound of pursuit. He was being followed. Fear clawed at his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. Desperately, he forced himself to try and stand up, but a wave of panic swept over him as his legs refused to cooperate. Cursing, he attempted again to stand, only to cry out in frustration and despair as he collapsed to the ground once more. The sounds behind him were getting closer, each rustle and snap of a twig a harbinger of doom.
Drawing upon the last ounces of strength he had left, Astarion started to pull himself forward, his nails digging into the dirt as he fought back sobs of fear. His useless legs dragged behind him like dead weights, slowing his progress. He couldn't die like this; he refused to believe that after everything he'd survived, this was how he'd go down. A fallen tree lay in his path, its rough bark scratching his skin as he used it to try and pull himself upright. The effort proved too much, and he slid back down, his body trembling with exertion.
Turning around and propping his back against the trunk, Astarion clutched his wound and steeled himself, preparing to face whatever fate had in store for him. His mind raced, a chaotic jumble of regret, fear, and defiance. The shadows seemed to close in around him, the forest growing darker as the moon slipped behind a cloud. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of his vulnerability.
Then, from the darkness, a lone figure emerged: Ishta. Her golden eyes fixed unblinkingly on him, shining with a predatory intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. She moved with a deadly grace, her every step deliberate and measured, like a Displacer Beast closing in on her prey.
"Stay back!" he snarled at her, his voice raw with desperation. He knew how pitiful he must look, but hoped that she would think twice before taking on a cornered Vampire. Glancing at her hands, his heart froze when he saw the stake gripped tightly in her left hand. The wooden weapon gleamed ominously in the faint light, a clear declaration of her intentions. 'So,' he thought wretchedly, 'she is the one who will end this dream.'
Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to survive, but his body betrayed him, drained of strength and hope. He could only watch as Ishta approached, his fate hanging in the balance, teetering on the edge of her mercy—or lack thereof.
Ishta calmly gazed down at the helpless man before her, noting his rapid, heavy breathing and the blood seeping through the fingers of the hand he held to his left side. His usually confident demeanour was shattered, leaving a broken figure trembling in the dirt. Astarion's eyes were wide with fear and pain, and she could see the desperation etched on his face. His once piercing gaze was now clouded with anguish and dread. Ishta knew she would have to approach him carefully. As injured as he was, he could still prove a threat.
She caught his glance at the object she held in her hand and the following look of despair as he guessed her intent. His eyes flickered with a mix of anger and hopelessness, the realization of his vulnerability hitting him hard. He turned away for a moment as if to try and weakly drag himself further, but his strength failed him, and he gave up, facing her again with a defeated sigh. Cautiously, she crossed the space between them and crouched beside him, her muscles tense and ready if he made any kind of move.
His eyes never left hers, and his laboured breathing intensified as she lifted the stick she was carrying. Each ragged breath seemed to carry a plea for mercy, a silent cry for understanding. Out of the corner of her eye, Ishta saw movement. A rock, his last weapon, was aimed at her head. With a smooth, practiced motion, she grabbed Astarion's wrist as he swung it at her. 'It would appear there is still some fight left in you after all,' she thought, a flicker of admiration in her mind.
With an expert twist, she exerted the right amount of pressure on his ligaments, forcing him to drop the rock. The thud of the stone hitting the ground seemed to echo the finality of his defeat. Gripping his wrist like a vice as he tried to pull his hand back, Ishta saw whatever defiance was left in Astarion evaporate. His shoulders sagged, and lowering his head he closed his eyes. A single word fell from his lips as he softly begged, "Please…"
The word hung in the air, filled with raw emotion, a stark contrast to the brazen, swaggering Rogue Ishta had come to know. She lifted the stick she carried, the same shard of kindling that Shadowheart had used to stab Astarion. The tip of it was stained red, its edges jagged and splintered where it had snapped in two. She had come across it while tracking down the Vampire and surmised that the rest of it was still buried deep in his side.
Slowly and deliberately, Ishta placed the stick in Astarion's hand. She could feel the tremor in his fingers, the fear and uncertainty coursing through him. She closed his fingers around it, and then released her grip on his wrist. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the night sounds hushed as if in reverence to the scene unfolding.
Astarion's eyes snapped open, and he stared at the bloodstained object now in his hand. The jagged shard of kindling felt rough against his fingers, its edges sharp and unforgiving. Confusion furrowed his brow as he looked up into Ishta's impassive eyes. What the hells... was she expecting him to stake himself? Anger flooded his face, and Ishta must have suspected his line of thought because she smiled faintly and shook her head. "No, it's not for that. You're probably going to want to bite down on it in a moment or two," she informed him, her voice soothing yet firm.
Astarion could only stare at her, dumbfounded as he tried to process what she was saying. His mind raced, trying to grasp her intentions. He tensed as she reached out and placed a hand on his chest, and he instinctively tried to shrink back from her touch, his body protesting in pain.
"Slow your breathing," she instructed him, her tone calm and authoritative.
"What?" His voice was a croak, barely more than a whisper.
"Right now, your heart is beating fast enough to force blood out through your wound." Ishta's words were calm and matter-of-fact as she continued, "I need you to bring it back down to a Vampire's normal heart rate before I can begin healing you. So I need you to calm down and slow your breathing."
Comprehension finally dawned on him, and he almost sobbed in relief. She wasn't going to kill him. She was here to help him. Ishta apparently sensed the tension leave him and smiled gently. "You aren't in any danger from me," she assured him.
Astarion relaxed, allowing himself to trust her, and tried to focus on doing what she asked. He understood all too well the dangers of allowing his heart to beat this fast. A Vampire's heart only beat once every couple of minutes, which, when compared to the standard number of beats per minute for most races, gave rise to the myth that they have no heartbeat at all. Astarion idly wondered who the first person brave enough to take a Vampire's pulse was. The idea amused him briefly, a fleeting distraction as he continued to concentrate on calming himself down. That single beat was all that was needed to circulate blood around his body, albeit at a highly reduced rate, which aided in preventing blood loss from injuries. The danger lay in becoming emotional enough to make his heart beat at a pace closer to that of a mortal's. That Ishta knew of this was something of a surprise; it wasn't a piece of information that many outside of his 'circles' had insights on.
As soon as Ishta could tell that his breathing and heart rate had slowed, she removed her hand from his chest. Astarion watched her with curiosity as she unbuckled a rolled pouch from her belt and laid it beside her on the forest floor. The pouch unrolled with a soft thud, revealing a small set of various metal objects he recognized as surgical tools. The sight of them caused a jolt of fear as he recalled the last time such implements had been used on him. Cold, sterile instruments slicing into his flesh, the memories were haunting. He quickly pushed the fear aside; that wasn't going to happen again, at least not here and now.
"Okay, I'm going to have to get a closer look at your injury. I suspect there are splinters still stuck in there, and I can't cast Cure Wounds until they are out," Ishta explained, gesturing to his side.
Astarion hesitated for a moment, then slowly moved his hand to uncover the punctured flesh. Ishta leaned over and gently started to roll up his torn shirt, but stopped when he flinched. He mentally rebuked himself as she gave him a questioning look. 'Stop it, she's only trying to help you,' he reminded himself.
When he offered no further resistance, Ishta continued to move his shirt out of the way and examined the damage. The bleeding had slowed to an almost imperceptible trickle, but looking down, Astarion could see that she had been right about there still being splinters of wood left behind. Each splinter was a reminder of the violent struggle that had led to this moment. Ishta reached into the pouch and pulled out a pair of small needle-nosed pliers. She exchanged a look with him, and nodded to the stick he still held in his other hand. Wordlessly, he brought it up to his mouth and bit down hard on its centre, the wood pressing uncomfortably against his teeth. Closing his eyes tight, he braced himself for what was about to come next.
Although he could tell that Ishta was trying to be as gentle as she could, the pain was almost unbearable as she probed around the splinters, trying to find the best way of removing them without causing further damage. Each movement sent waves of agony through his body, and it took all of his strength and willpower to keep his heartbeat steady, lest he start to bleed out again. Beads of sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the dirt and blood, as he fought to stay still and allow Ishta to work on clearing the wound of foreign material.
"Get ready, this one is really going to hurt," Ishta warned him, bracing one hand against his shoulder and shifting her grip on the pliers.
The scream that forced its way out of Astarion's chest and past his clenched jaws was muffled but still loud enough to startle a nearby owl into taking flight. He barely had time to register the sight of Ishta holding up a chunk of gore-covered wood before his vision darkened, and he slumped into merciful unconsciousness. The forest seemed to exhale a sigh of relief as he fell into oblivion, the pain finally subsiding into the depths of his mind.
"Not so tough when it's your own blood, hmm?" Ishta quietly remarked, her voice a blend of irony and sorrow. She watched the unconscious Vampire before her, his face drawn and paler than usual, stark against the dark forest floor. She was actually grateful that he had passed out, as it meant she could focus on removing the rest of the splinters without having to watch for Astarion inadvertently or deliberately lashing out at her. The sharp scent of blood mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest, creating a heady, disconcerting mix. Given what she knew about him, she was surprised at his low pain tolerance. 'You brought this one on yourself, you fool,' Ishta thought, shaking her head, a mixture of frustration and pity washing over her.
It took her no time at all to finish cleaning Astarion's wound. Her fingers moved deftly, years of practice guiding her actions with precision and care. Once she was sure the bleeding had stopped, Ishta focused on channelling her restorative energy through to her fingertips. "Te Curo!" she whispered.
The healing evocation briefly bathed Astarion's body in a pale green glow, illuminating the surrounding darkness with a soft, ethereal light. The light flared brightest at the site of his stab wound, and Ishta observed with satisfaction as the ragged edges of flesh began to slowly close up, knitting together under the influence of her magic. It would take a few minutes for a wound this deep and messy to fully seal, but in the end, only the faintest trace of a scar would remain, a testament to this night and its trials.
As she waited, Ishta's mind wandered, reflecting on the strange turn of events that had led her here. She glanced at Astarion's face, now peaceful in unconsciousness, and felt a pang of empathy. "What were you thinking?" she murmured.
She used the time to carefully remove the stick from between Astarion's teeth. The rough wood was wedged tightly, a reminder of the desperate moments before he had passed out. There was an awkward moment where she had to exert a little extra force to prise it off one of his fangs, all the while silently pleading for him not to wake up and find her doing this, fearing his reaction in his vulnerable state.
Fortunately, Astarion remained unconscious, blissfully unaware of her struggles with his dentistry. Ishta tossed the 'almost murder weapon' into the brush with a sigh of relief, watching it disappear into the undergrowth. The act felt symbolic, a small victory in the midst of chaos.
She packed away her medical kit with practiced efficiency, the familiar motions grounding her. Reattaching it to her belt, she clambered up and perched atop the tree trunk a little to the side of Astarion's head.
All that was left to do was wait for him to regain consciousness. She hoped the simple healing spell would be enough to keep him alive long enough for his own supernatural healing abilities to kick in. The forest around them was alive with the sounds of night creatures, their calls a haunting symphony that seemed to echo her own tumultuous thoughts.
Hopefully, then she could get some answers out of him. She just hoped that the answers would be worth the pit of dread in her stomach. The uncertainty gnawed at her, a relentless reminder of the precariousness of their situation. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that was seeping into her bones, both from the cool night air and the anxiety that gripped her heart.
She gazed down at Astarion, her expression softening. "Wake up, you fool," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "Please don't make me have to kill you now, after all this time." The words hung in the air, a quiet plea to the night, to the universe, to the man lying below her.
Astarion woke with a start, his senses firing at once as his eyes darted around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The forest loomed dark and oppressive, shadows dancing menacingly among the trees. A knot of fear tightened in his chest as he struggled to remember what had happened and why he was out here in the cold, silent night. The earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filled his nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of his own blood. He attempted to rise to his feet, but a firm pressure on his shoulder forced him back down.
"Ah! No, you don't," an authoritative voice rang out. "Sit back down and let that wound finish healing. If you make it bleed, so help me, I will knock you out again."
The pain shooting up from his side brought the memory of recent events flooding back into his mind. The searing agony was a cruel reminder of his encounter with Shadowheart and the desperate escape that followed. Groaning, Astarion leaned back against the rough bark of the tree trunk and glanced up at the speaker. Ishta was peering down from her seat above him, with a stern expression on her face. One knee was tucked under her chin, while her other leg dangled down, the foot of which was resting on his shoulder.
Astarion felt a little unsettled by how calm and unperturbed she was in his presence. Her golden eyes, usually so languid, now glinted with a steely resolve. Clearly, the revelations about the nature of his being were not all that much of a revelation to Ishta. He was uncomfortably aware that she had the upper hand right now, in every sense of the word.
"How long have you known?" he asked wearily, his voice strained.
"That you are an idiot? About an hour," Ishta replied, lifting her foot off his shoulder and crossing her legs with deliberate nonchalance.
Astarion scowled at her, but she ignored him. "That you are a Vampire... about a couple of weeks," she shrugged, her tone dismissive.
Shock must have been evident on his face because she gave a wry smile. "I happened to be out hunting at night the same time as you. We were both after the same boar. You got there first."
Ishta slid down from her perch and sat beside him. Astarion couldn't help but admire her boldness, the way she carried herself with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. She didn't seem afraid of him, and that both intrigued and unnerved him. He also didn't fail to notice the small dagger she was twirling around in one hand. It was a not-so-subtle message he received loud and clear. Ishta noticed his eyes on her blade and grinned.
"Though I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why you were trying to hug it to death."
Astarion chuckled softly, the sound bitter and edged with pain. He winced as the motion sent a spasm of agony through his body. 'Gods... you'd think after enduring 200 years of torture I'd be used to this by now,' he thought ruefully. His body, despite its undead resilience, still had its limits.
Ishta chided him, her voice gentle but firm. "Try not to move too much until the spell has had enough time to properly do its job."
He turned his head to look at her, his expression a mix of curiosity and wariness. "Why... why are you helping me?" he asked slowly.
Ishta stopped twirling her dagger and pondered the question for a moment. Her eyes took on a distant look, as if she were searching through memories and emotions to find the right words. A part of him feared the answer, but he needed to know.
"Because I have a terrible condition," she replied, her voice sombre. "I've been told over and over that it will kill me one of these days."
Alarm bells rang in Astarion's head. 'Shit... she must think I'm a True Vampire that can grant her immortality,' he thought bitterly. 'Why else would she save my life?'
"It's called a bleeding heart."
Her words startled him for a moment, and then a slow smile of comprehension spread across his face. Turning to look at Ishta, his eyes met hers, and he saw the glimmer of amusement in them. She continued, her tone casual and confiding, "It's a terrible disease, really. I see people in trouble, and I just have this overwhelming urge to help them."
Astarion felt his whole body relax as he finally understood he wasn't in any danger. This woman truly meant him no harm. "Sounds awful," he grinned at her, the tension melting from his features.
The moonlight filtering through the canopy above bathed them in a soft, silver glow, creating an almost surreal atmosphere. The distant sounds of the forest, the rustling leaves, and the calls of nocturnal creatures provided a haunting backdrop to their conversation. For the first time in a long while, Astarion felt a flicker of hope.
Ishta saw the change in Astarion's demeanour and felt it was safe for her to relax. At last, she had his full attention and, for now, his trust. He had always responded well to quick humour and banter in the past, so she decided to keep going with her 'explanation' to his question.
"It really is," she complained, shaking her head with exaggerated exasperation. "You have no idea how inconvenient it is to have to drop everything and help some poor Wizard out from inside a rock, save a grumpy Githyanki from a Goblin trap, or give up on a decent night's rest to race after some poor sod who's gone and gotten himself stabbed by an irate Cleric."
Just as she hoped, Astarion appeared to be enjoying her little rant. His eyes sparkled with amusement, and the tension seemed to drain from his body. He was completely at ease now, leaning back against the tree trunk, and seemed a little more like his old self as he played along and nodded understandingly.
"I entirely agree, that does sound like an absolutely debilitating disease," he sympathized with a playful smile.
Ishta decided to test the waters of his lifted spirits and leaned forward, resting her elbow on one leg and propping up her chin. "Why did you try to take a bite out of Shadowheart, by the way?" she asked, tilting her head curiously in his direction.
Astarion's body tensed, and his eyes locked on hers, but she kept her gaze steady and as non-threatening as possible. She could see the myriad emotions flitting across his face—confusion, guilt, fear—before finally settling on resignation. He sighed and lowered his head, the weight of his actions pressing down on him.
"It's not what you think. I'm not some monster," he muttered, his voice thick with regret. "I usually feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds—whatever I can find. I'm just too slow right now, too weak. I thought if I only had a little blood, I could think clearer, fight better. So I tried to take some from Shadowheart."
Here, Astarion looked up, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I wasn't going to hurt her, I swear. I just needed blood. But then she woke and attacked me—I had to defend myself, you understand."
Ishta held his gaze for a moment, her expression unreadable. 'Those bruises on Shadowheart's neck go beyond self-defence,' she thought. She kept this observation to herself, though, as there was something more pressing on her mind.
"Bullshit, Astarion."
"I beg your pardon?" he blinked at her, taken aback.
"You heard me. I've seen you with that bow of yours. You could hunt half the beasts in this forest without ever breaking a sweat. So what's the real reason you suddenly decided to change up your menu?" Ishta asked bluntly, her tone cutting through the night air like a blade.
Astarion started to bristle, and Ishta wondered if she'd pushed too far, too soon. His eyes began darting around, as if looking for an escape route, and she knew she would have to tread carefully now to keep the situation under control.
"Astarion, listen to me. I'm not angry with you," she assured him, her voice softening. "And I get why you felt you needed to keep this a secret from us all. I just want to understand why you risked being exposed and having us turn on you by going for Shadowheart, when there is a forest teeming with game right on your doorstep."
Astarion focused on her again, and Ishta could see his jaw grinding under the weight of whatever decision he was trying to make. The ambient night sounds of the forest grew louder in the silence that stretched out between them. Astarion's eyes glowed a deep crimson as shafts of moonlight pierced through the canopy of branches above and illuminated his face. After what seemed like an eternity, he lowered his head and sighed in frustration.
"I needed to know."
Ishta calmly waited for him to continue as Astarion shifted around uncomfortably. Whatever he was about to tell her was clearly not something he wanted to talk about, but her patience was rewarded as he resumed speaking.
"I am a spawn. My... former master, Cazador Szarr, is a Vampire Lord in Baldur's Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power—I mean power over people. The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his Spawn, and he became my tormentor."
Ishta straightened her head, wondering if she should reveal what she already knew of this story, but decided against it. The fact that he was voluntarily telling her all this was a good sign. He trusted her enough in this moment to tell the truth.
"So you were his slave?" she asked gently.
Astarion shook his head. "A Vampire's Spawn is less than a slave. They're a puppet. We have no choice but to obey our master's commands. They speak, and our bodies react... it's all part of the deal. Sometimes he'd order us to submit to torture. Sometimes he'd have us torture ourselves. Whatever his weathervane mood settled on."
The look in his eyes became withdrawn, and Ishta could see the pain in them from bringing these memories to the surface. After what she had witnessed when her mind had linked with Astarion's all those nights ago, she couldn't blame him for being reluctant to relive his experiences. Ishta knew something of how that felt. Her own past was something she tried to keep buried deep within the furthest corners of her mind.
Leaning forwards slightly, the elf's tone became more animated. "Ever since I was kidnapped by the mind flayers and implanted with this worm, I have been living in a strange, twisted kind of freedom. Standing in the sun, wading through rivers, wandering into homes without an invitation—they are all perfectly mundane activities now. More importantly though, I no longer feel the pull of Cazador's hold over me..." Astarion paused here and leaned back heavily. "At least not until tonight," he admitted quietly.
The hair on the back of Ishta's neck stood up. 'Now this could be a problem,' she thought uneasily.
Astarion must have noticed the look on her face because he quickly continued. "I had a... well, a dream—or perhaps it was a vision of him earlier tonight. I could see him as clearly as I see you now. He was reminding me that I still belonged to him and reciting those damn rules."
"Rules?" Ishta cocked her head inquiringly.
Astarion held up his hand and began counting off on his fingers. "First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shalt obey me in all things. Thirdly, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed. Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine forever."
Everything fell into place the moment Ishta heard Astarion recite the first rule. Knowing what she did of Vampires, the first rule made perfect sense. A Vampire's power was derived from the strength of their victims—not their physical strength, but the level of intellect and life experience that only sentient beings could provide. Animals and other lesser beasts simply could not offer the same levels of power, and if this Cazador was so obsessed with controlling people, it came as no surprise that he would force his Spawn to feed on inferior beings to keep them weak and subservient.
"Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures..." she repeated slowly, giving Astarion a half-smile. "So that's why you did it."
The look of surprise that gave way to begrudging admiration on his face confirmed her theory. Pushing herself forward and standing up, Ishta walked a few steps away. Spinning around and placing her hands on her hips, she confronted Astarion.
"So let me get this straight. You attacked one of my team—while she was sleeping, by the way, you jerk—and risked being thrown out into the wilds alone at best," she gestured to the surrounding forest, "and being staked in the heart at worst, all just so you could give the middle finger to your old master?"
"Well... uh... when you put it like that," Astarion faltered, suddenly looking unsure of himself.
Ishta watched him come to terms with just how much of a risk he had taken and sighed inwardly. If the Illithid parasite doesn't kill him first, his own stupidity will. She could empathize with his desire to test the limits of this newfound freedom, but his recklessness had almost ended that freedom prematurely. As resourceful and capable as he was, Astarion clearly still needed the protection afforded by allies. Ishta just hoped she could convince the others waiting for her in camp that he was still worth protecting. Though, if she was being honest with herself, she wasn't entirely sure of that fact either.
Then an idea sparked in her head, a final way to test just how far he could still be trusted. It was potentially dangerous, and the thought of what she would have to do filled her with trepidation. A heavy dread stemming from unwelcome memories rose in her chest, but Ishta forced the feeling back down in determination.
Stepping forward and crouching directly in front of him, she extended her arm and turned over her wrist, exposing the veins beneath. "Well, that's something I can get behind," she smiled.
Astarion stared at her in stunned silence for a moment, looking down at the proffered wrist, scarcely daring to believe his luck. Not only had this woman just saved his life, here she was volunteering to let him feed on her. Either she was incredibly stupid or completely fearless. Her cunning and ruthlessness in battle steered him toward the latter explanation being more likely. Astarion suspected that, of the two of them, he wasn't the most dangerous thing in the forest tonight. The familiar gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach grew stronger as he gazed at the veins in her wrist, and he forced himself not to snatch greedily at the offering. He wondered just how far she would trust him…
"Traditionally, the neck is preferred," he smiled disarmingly, trying to mask the overwhelming desire coursing through him.
"Not a chance." Ishta shook her head, then paused and added, "Not this time anyway."
'So not that far then. Fair enough,' he mentally conceded, though the words "this time" sent a thrilling ripple of excitement through him. There might be more opportunities like this in the future, but for now, he needed to focus on the present and on not jeopardizing the fragile truce he currently enjoyed. 'Don't screw this up,' he sternly told himself as he reached out and gently pulled her arm closer. Holding Ishta's wrist cupped between his hands, Astarion gave her a final questioning glance. When he received a nod of approval from her, he cautiously lowered his head and bared his fangs.
To her credit, Ishta didn't flinch as he bit down. Her hot blood gushed into his mouth, flowing down his throat like liquid fire. Astarion's eyes widened for a moment at the overwhelming sweetness, then he closed them in pleasure and tightened his grip on Ishta's wrist. The warmth of her blood spread through him, filling his own veins with a newfound strength. Hungrily, he bit down further and savored the taste of every delectable mouthful as he drank. Each gulp brought a comforting warmth to his belly and a surge of vitality to his limbs.
Rage flared in his mind at the thought that Cazador had kept him from experiencing such incredible delights for so long. Nothing he had fed on in the past could ever compare to the rich taste of this she-elf's blood. It was intoxicating. His senses became sharper, the sounds of the forest more vivid, and the scent of the night air crisper. It was also becoming harder to concentrate, and Astarion realized he was becoming dangerously close to losing control. He couldn't risk draining Ishta dry by mistake, though he doubted he would get the chance to. A blade might be heading toward his heart at any moment if he didn't rein in his hunger soon.
Reluctantly, Astarion forced himself to release his grip on Ishta's arm and raised his head, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. He was met with the sight of her staring at him bemusedly, one eyebrow raised. Her calm demeanor was unsettling, and he couldn't fathom why she hadn't stopped him. Was this a test? If so, he just hoped that he had passed it.
"Enjoy yourself?" she inquired brightly, though there was a slight edge to her voice that warned him to be careful.
"I did, thank you. That was…amazing. My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…happy," he replied, leaning back against the fallen tree, breathless with the thrill of what he had just experienced. His entire body hummed with the energy she had given him, a far cry from the weakness and desperation he had felt earlier.
"Well, I'm glad someone is. That bloody hurt!" Ishta complained, looking at her still oozing wrist with some distaste. The bite marks were raw and ugly, a stark reminder of the danger she had willingly put herself in.
"I would show some sympathy, darling, if I wasn't currently recovering from being impaled," Astarion grinned and closed his eyes. His whole body felt lighter, and the pain from his injury was rapidly fading away as his natural healing ability kicked in, working faster than it ever had in the past. 'So this is the power you kept from us, you old bastard,' he thought angrily, a fresh wave of resentment surging through him.
"Did that answer your burning need to know then?" Ishta's tone held equal measures of sarcasm and curiosity, her eyes studying him intently.
"Mmm... Most definitely," he murmured, still relishing the lingering taste of her blood.
"Well, once you've finished purring in bliss like a gorged Crag Cat, we need to discuss what happens next. Especially with regards to the others and exactly what we tell them."
Ishta's words snapped Astarion out of his reverie and brought back to mind the awkward situation his recent actions had placed him in. 'Funny how a warm meal and pleasant company can make you forget the important little details,' he reflected, 'like a pissed-off, stab-happy cleric waiting in the dark for me.'
"Do you think the others will be happy to see me when we waltz back into camp together?" he asked innocently, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His newfound strength gave him a burst of confidence, but he knew better than to underestimate the wrath of his companions.
Ishta snorted. "I'm sure Shadowheart will be delighted," she grimaced back, rolling her eyes.
"Hmm, somehow I doubt she will be as appreciative of your 'bleeding heart' as I am right now. In fact, it's more likely that she will offer to make your condition's description less…metaphorical."
"You're probably not wrong," Ishta sighed and stood up. He watched her stretch her cramped muscles, her movements fluid and graceful. Bathed in the moonlight, she looked almost ethereal, like a panther poised to strike. Not an ounce of wasted flesh on her body, every muscle and sinew honed to perfection underneath the belted linen tunic and tight-fitting leather trousers she wore when not in her ranger's armour. A huntress as beautiful as she was deadly...
"So, convince me."
"Huh?" Astarion halted his appraisal of Ishta's form and focused on her face.
"Convince me that you aren't a threat to the rest of the group, and then I'll work at convincing them of that fact too. For instance, going forward, how will you be feeding? If drinking from 'thinking creatures' makes you stronger, then fine. But I only have so much blood to spare, so I can't be doing this every night for you."
Astarion was once again impressed with how calm and unruffled Ishta seemed to be at the thought of traveling and working with a Vampire. She was more concerned with the practicalities of the situation than the potential ethical dilemmas it might raise. He had the amusing thought that if a Beholder were to turn up and ask to join their party, she would probably just set about finding a big enough tent to accommodate it.
"No innocents, you have my word," he inclined his head in sincerity, "only villains that we need to kill anyway."
Astarion noted her raised eyebrow and continued. "After all, now that everyone knows what I am, I can freely fight with all my weapons. Teeth included," he added, baring his fangs to emphasize the point.
"True."
"And if I happen to drain the occasional bandit during a fight, what's the harm? They're just as dead," he grinned wickedly.
Ishta considered his words, her expression thoughtful. She understood the practical side of his argument, but the ethical implications still weighed heavily on her mind. She was a protector by nature, and the idea of her companions being in danger, even from one of their own, was troubling. However, given the constant threats they faced from one source or another, the trail of bodies left in the wake of her little band of survivors was staring to mount up. As macabre as the thought was, it seemed a shame for all that blood to go to waste, especially if it would give her an edge in battle. A Spawn may not be as powerful as a True Vampire, but they were still a force to be reckoned with when at full strength. Astarion had already proven his worth as an effective fighter, and Ishta found herself secretly looking forward to finding out just how much stronger he could become.
"I suppose that's one way to look at it," she finally conceded. "But we'll need to be careful. The others will need convincing, and you'll need to prove that you can control your... impulses."
"I can do that," Astarion replied confidently. "And I will. You have my word."
"Alright, deal," she declared, her voice firm but laced with curiosity.
Astarion looked pleased with her acceptance of his suggestion and leapt to his feet with a grace that was almost feline. His sudden burst of energy startled her, but she maintained her cool and didn't react, though she did feel spitefully satisfied as he flinched and held his side. 'Serves you right,' she thought scornfully.
"Ouch," he winced, "I might have gotten up a bit too soon there. However, your skilful ministrations seem to have done a wonderful job at patching me up."
Looking down at his blood-soaked clothing, Astarion's face fell. "This was my best shirt. Now look at it, completely ruined," he mournfully complained, his tone almost petulant.
Ishta rolled her eyes, feeling a mix of irritation and amusement. As much as his vanity annoyed her, she was glad to see he felt well enough to start acting the part of the 'dandy' again. Clearly, the combination of the healing spell and the energy derived from her blood had more or less fully repaired the damage he'd suffered. And vastly improved his mood too, by the look of it.
"Astarion, you're a Vampire. I'm sure getting blood out of clothing is a skill you were practically born with," she retorted, smirking at his indignant expression. "As for the gaping hole in it, well, I'm sure Gale has a mending spell or something… or you can borrow a sewing kit. In the meantime, you can have one of my spare shirts. It may not be made of the fine, expensive cloth you are no doubt accustomed to, but it's better than nothing."
Astarion looked her up and down, his eyes twinkling, and winked mischievously. "I think I'd rather go naked than be seen wearing your idea of fashion, darling."
Ishta stared at him blankly for a moment, then pointed to his side. "I can reopen that stab wound if you want, mate."
Chuckling, Astarion held up his hands in mock surrender. "Apologies. Of course, I would be grateful for anything you can provide." He bowed with a flourish, flashing her a winning smile that made her want to punch him in the face.
'Gods,' thought Ishta irritably, 'he definitely must be feeling better if he's flirting with me.'
"Let's just get back to camp. I would like to at least get some rest tonight, and I expect there will be a few more long conversations to get through before this night is over," Ishta grumbled, turning on her heel and beginning to walk back in the direction they had both come from.
Astarion fell into step beside her, his presence a disconcerting shadow. The forest around them was alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, the rustling leaves and distant calls creating a symphony that underscored their silent journey. The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting dappled patterns on the ground and illuminating their path with a soft, silvery glow.
As they walked, Ishta couldn't help but steal glances at Astarion. He moved with a predatory grace, his every step deliberate and fluid. Despite the recent ordeal, he seemed more alive than she had ever seen him, his eyes glowing with a renewed vigour. The dynamics between them had shifted subtly—there was a new layer of complexity to their relationship, a fragile trust born out of necessity and shared secrets. She found herself once again questioning her sanity over the decision she had made all those nights ago, to let him live after discovering his secret. 'I blame you,' she mentally whispered to the tadpole nestled inside her brain. If it heard her, it did not deign to answer back.